Was ever a man less inclined to keep oiling a Webley and waxing the draw leather than me? The star I collect payment for sporting emits little light in such times. But the vote on which joiner will receive commission on the church pews looms heavy this week. Settle for that distraction and hope for the best. May the daily torrent at least rinse something clean. Now to split some nightwood and turn in. God bless and keep and so on.
~ * ~
May 28
Pouring down rain, pouring down rain. The Maury is at flood again and little chance to move about with dispatch. This wilderness business sits heavy on me. Today I have the chivaree of Bob Dove as accompaniment, as I was roused last night to attend his pranks at the Star Diner and subsequently had to take him into custody. He is most often an affable and harmless drunk, but something was stuck in his craw last night concerning the jibes of some cadets from the Institute, and he was busting glass and spreading threats like broadcasting so much wheat seed, though today his sole crime is that tuneless caterwauling.
I must plot this campaign anew, as the Irish Creek inmates seem little inclined to step forward for the reward, and Pink’s agent, whom I know of only as Cratis, has turned in a blank book where details of the fugitive’s habits and dens might be concerned. If you believe hearsay, the creature is at once everywhere and none, reeling at a party in Brownsburg and pistol-whipping a barber in Amherst ten minutes later. Pink further reports that Painter has posted in one tawing shop a notice of two dollars reward for the governor’s own noble pelt. If there is comedy in this, it is too rustic for my appetite.
I cannot strike from my mind today the first visit I made to the Pogue homestead last month. Granny Fell had already taken the assailed under her roof, and I expected to find the place empty but instead came up a draw on the morningside of the mountain, then over the ditch which resembles nothing so much as a siege moat, only to find myself facing a sallow girl sprite perched on the slanted porch of the shotgun house and plucking a white chicken in lazy and distracted fashion. The house was shabby with loose chinking, bullet scars, and scorch marks where somebody had done mischief. It was just touching twilight, and though the ash and dogwood, the judas and earliest blackberries were showing bloom, the big rose oaks were limb-empty and clutching at the sky with many claws. The first night noises were tuning up. The rain djinns were resting a spell.
I tied Vester to a shrub and approached the urchin when she leveled at me the most unnatural and lifeless pink eyes and commenced to sing softly in a nonsense jargon. She was clad in a coarse sacking, and her one hand began to snatch at the feathers with vim, tossing them aside almost in rhythm with her crude lullaby. It is Bob Dove’s infernal serenade that puts me in mind of the scene again, and when I made effort to speak to her as one would gentle a jumpy filly, she slung the corpse over her shoulder, sprang up, and dashed through the gap and into the north room, the hen’s red-combed head bouncing on her back as she ran, its dead eye squamous.
When I mounted the scaffold steps and entered, the room was near empty, most likely already plundered by those who knew the place uninhabited. Beside the cookstove a plank table was tossed aside and a rent patch quilt on the floor, the windows glassless but for the front one, the place a general shambles. A few bent speckleware cups and pans about, empty cans and windblown woods-debris, a chipped slop bucket. A whet strop hung nailed to the wall with pellets of scuttling creatures here and there, the whole affair shoddy. Seeing no sign of the child and aware I was soaked to the skin, I paused to surmise the unfolding of the drama— the two victims settling toward dinner, early moon hanging, the alleged felon charging in from the rain with a blade in his hand. Here the two men tangled and fell, there the girl sat shaking. Then the girl grabbed by her garment and thrown, mounted, and trod. I turned aside from it and walked through the open door.
The south room was smaller and more peculiar, as it had instead of door a curtain of loose-threaded feathers from various birds stitched to a hide. Two broken bedsteads with shuck sacking and a rocking chair not much bigger than a grown buck’s rack were all the appointments, but the one wall where internal pine paneling had been raised was all scarred and painted in goggle-eye faces which appeared to predate the vacant state of the house. Now as I think back, I am sure there are many instances in which you can see what’s not there as plain as Jacob’s potatoes. Perhaps that was one such, and I have not thought to ask Granny Fell or Pink about the etchings, which no longer carry a stable shape in my mind.
Outside, an equally empty pig sty and backhouse, but no child, no sign or sound of company other than the poor-wills warming up, though I could see on the far peaks opposite thunderheads were mustering for storm. It was clear from first report that the remote location of the house would eliminate any opportunity to glean corroborations from the scene, and it seemed I could not now even keep hold of the one fleeting soul who had appeared and might be able to answer questions on the practices of the deceased. I shouted out a bold how-do to the general surround and raised no answer but the shadow of my own voice and wondered were the portraits inside a child’s rendering of shoats and the old brindle boss Pogue was said to have owned. I had no doubt those beasts would be forever forfeit, melted away like spring ice.
Though there was no time to descend the mountain before full dark and hovering rain, I was disinclined to pass the night on the murder grounds, and as the cutthroat was intimate with the place, I preferred we might stumble upon one another under different circumstances and thus stirred with dispatch toward a homestead known to me just under the ridge, where I was offered a good bait of supper and pallet, along with a gill of other refreshment and fine-strand tobacco for my briar. Sleep came easily but brought vexing dreams of the glimpsed child and the queer drawings, and I wished for the warmth of Adair’s flank and the comfort of her steady breath. It is tempting enough to remember that another brand of life might proffer more explicit pleasures than quiet affection and trust, but in suchlike haunts and on such occasions, only a fool would fix merit on anything trimmed with risk or steeped in shadows.
My dark reverie, if that be the wordage for it, was brushed aside by the sound of Lish Jackson’s voice declaiming an urgent message, which turned out to be no more than reminder from Adair of our invitation to a garden party at the manse. The commotion was enough to stir Bob’s voice to new verses.
The fresh editor of the Rockbridge County Gazette is eager to announce the reward, so I must supply my consent. Before we are waded deep into June I hope to put this Brodie case behind me, if I have to posse up and send him and all the moonmen up there to Ujinctum. For the present, it is pressing to attire myself for the soiree. Therefore the thinking day is ended and finds me in dry clothes. For that much, thanks be.
~ * ~
June 4
Today as I loafed by the door of Brown’s Forge, I saw the Irish Creek girl passing by, slogging through the mud gum, evidently toting milk for Granny Fell. She stopped full still before McCrum Drug on Nelson Street and gave me a hard look with those bitter eyes. I reckoned she was using jimson weed to darken her stare and berries on her mouth. The only sound discernible to me was Muse Brown’s hammer ringing the iron for Vester’s left hind shoe, and when she caught my gaze, Miss Grove resumed her stroll, swinging the rack of milk bottles till the sound of glass rattling liked to wash out the racket of metal. As she sashayed down the street, I saw the afternoon sky was gone to quicksilver and doubt not we’ll see the resumption of the judgment rain that has baptized us all season. Ofttimes, I almost sense connection between her disturbing aspect and the disrupted sky.
Queries from the citizenry persist. I must soon move to tighten the snare about Painter, who we now learn has not been in the county at all but shammicking down in Roanoke, where the spindle side of his clan was once known to squat. As soon as I can trust a sighting in this district, I will convene a committee of riders and make a sweep. No more stealth and half-measures in this, no more doodle-bug-come-out and hard wishing
at prayer meeting. If I am to continue boring with a big auger in this town, results must swiftly unfold.
~ * ~
June 15
The train wreck toward Fairfield has brought news from a brake-man well known to Painter that the wanted man is surely now in the area, tidings that must not lie unemployed. An illusion master said to be able to glean thoughts from the air and to snake-shed his own skin unveils in Buena Vista tonight, and would that I could trust such wonders enough to query him about the slippery outlaw.
On the journey back from Fairfield, I yearned for time to pause by the old church at Gethsemane, where Mother and Father lie at rest, but the current urgencies allowed only a glance from the road. At least the field is well scythed, and the yews shadow the slope with a feeling of peace. I must return with Adair on Decoration Day to set fresh flowers and clear the stones.
~ * ~
June 20
After several days of sog and commotion I am at last able to report the capture of the outlaw Painter, which went not so smoothly as we had hoped, but as he is the most public catch between Roanoke and Staunton, my relief is not paltry.
Word came the fugitive had phantomed in and out of our jurisdiction at will in the guise of a woman but was now bold enough to call on his brother Dari and move among other kindred, though always by stealth and moonlight, so I gathered a squad of willing men and headed for the steeps with a provisioned jack in tow. John Pink and his cousin Suttock on the latter’s apt-named Mud were there, also Drennin, who is claimed able to track at a gallop, and two others. We met Chief Hazelwood aboard a dapple I do not know on the White’s Gap and swept watchfully in a long arc toward the Painter place. As per usual, the rain was our constant companion.
We assayed first the Blood Tavern, where the accused is wont to linger, and not finding him there put out word among the local hog rangers we would retire to Lexington in defeat, then feinted southwest before double-tracking. The first night found us in Turkey Hollow, confident in our ruse, but we kept a cold camp and slept in a tight of laurel to prevent detection, though our tenting provided inadequate comfort. Of all the wildcats I have pursued this man cat was among the cagiest prey, and with all South Mountain’s caves and hells offering refuge, we were far from assured of success.
Next noon found us circling slowly — Dark Hollow and Big Dark, easing in on the base of Nettle Mountain, where we were bound. The woods are lively there, glossy, and more than a few rudducks would break from cover flashing their red wings. This in full sunshine, to our amazement. Twice we spied scheming bell-tails coiled snug behind conchy logs, but we gave them wide berth. I can easily see how those briar hoppers escape accounting and rusticate while running laurel farms and bobcat herds, as the tales have it. This is not yet a tamed tract. Goat’s beard and hellebore were common amid the itch ivy, and the footing treacherous over declines of slate waste. Though it was good to be in the saddle, not a soul we rousted could inform us of any events beyond their immediate sight. If the local denizens harbor any respect for the law, they are sworn to secrecy on the matter.
Vester issued his protest nicker and slung his mane about more than once in the hard going, and I hated to push him through such terrain, as he is no hog pony nor slink hound but a good horse for the chase. Still, there was nothing else for it, as we wished to close in on Painter’s trail before he might again flee.
Being apprised of the partisan nature of the neighborhood, we were always on alert for bushwhackers, and the nervous result brought Suttock and Richard Travers near to blows over a trifle on one occasion. Not a little wind was spent on the rascality of Painter, his invisible nature and deep schemes, and I again remarked how he seemed a four-legged painter more than human. Not one man jack among us doubted his culpability, so we moved through briar and blowdown with resolve, always single file, often leading our mounts over scabby ground. We also found that region much tangled in suckle vine, and despite the blossom waft, the Irish Creek area had about it some odor of decay and abandon throughout the ivy slick. The ceiling dropped low and threatening again, and the much-washed earth had sprung up every species of noxious toadstools as recompense. In one beat-down I took for bear wallow a great razorback tushed by and startled the entire party to snatch for weapons. The whole district exhales the hospitality of a grave.
There being no real path in the final mile along the bluff, we were obliged to conceal our horses in a barn and pioneer through dense green to achieve a vantage over what Pink claimed to be the seat of the clan. It was slow going, and the day a sweat bath with further showers impending, but we shuckled as best we could and just before dusk found our target. You could see the frames of drying pelts and a lot full of sorry-looking cull hogs. Critter traps, some bee gums, punky cordwood, and divers trash cluttered the demesne, and from various trees hung a kind of bonechime —jaws, ribs, back knuckles, and skulls still slick with gore, whether to lure ghosts or repel angels no man could have ventured. A slight worm of blue smoke rose from the flag chimney, but no soul moving, so we took to the rocks and laurels, deploying in skirmish fashion, waiting for life signs. Last daylight was a rouged edge through the foliage, but I found little of beauty in it. I checked my watch and my revolver over and again, reminding the Lord to keep a sharp eye, as I was entering danger, though ostensibly clothed in the power of the law.
Before twenty minutes had passed, the jar-flies humming up in their seven-year chirr, I could see a window opened in its sheath at the back of the dark house, and a dim figure appeared — Dari, who having somehow surmised the besiegement of the house intended to make for the tree line and apprise his kin.
That was not allowed, as Chief Hazelwood surprised the brother with a Spencer rifle at the level, as he rounded a strawstack. As Haze marched him around to the front, Dari, who has much of the scarecrow about him, made to jackrabbit, and for his efforts received a blow from the gunstock behind his knees.
Sam Watts of our party then rushed into the house, where the distaff kin huddled, and purported he would kill every man, woman, and child if they issued a sound. He was snarling like a coon dog and they wolving back when I entered the fray and found a quartet of females, all with hacked hair and wearing frocks sewn from the same bolt. All were sparrow-eyed and snaggley, the least a mere imp and the eldest a crone of rawky voice, dugs scarce covered by her cloth, and her steady sneer evidenced she bore no respect for my badge or rabbit-eared two-barrel. Everything in the single-room cabin was ashed and scutty with a stink of fish and rancid lard, and I would have been much pleased to be in any other of the world’s sculleries but that one. Soon our party were both in the reeking house and beyond it, a picket line of our deputies to let the fugitive pass through, and with lanterns lit inside, we impressed the women to make supper motions and stir the fire.
Before long, the object of our search emerged from a stand of scrub pine, his expression that of a preacher on a spree, an old Colt Navy dangling from his hand but his gait a carefree lope. Although he was much altered since his soldier days, I knew him at once. He is the blackest of the Painters, likely issued from different loins than Dari, and in that twilight one could indeed describe him as damson. At his approach Pink shouted his name, as in turn did we all to announce the full surround. The women, knowing Painter’s indisposition to surrender and seeing so many firearms brandished, commenced to plead and keen for their beloved relative’s life, and he raised his hands as if to come in peaceably, bringing me to a sigh of relief. Catching his face holding back all feeling, I had to think for one moment he was but little different from myself — worn out and edgy — and hoped he would yield easy.
But that was not to be. Haze strode forth with the irons in his hand, and just at that pass, Painter abandoned his ruse, roostered his hammer, and dropped to his knee to fire a ball at the Chief. We can only assume that the chamber was null or wet, as the sole sound was a dry snap, and by then Suttock feathered into the man with his Winchester, swatting as if he had an axe handle. Even stunned an
d bleeding from the temple, Painter, who is both stout and tall, was loath to be manacled or handled roughly, and he thrashed about. I finally had to put on the quietus with a blow to his nape from my belt stick. Peeling back the sleeve of his dustcoat and shirt, I saw the viper drawn into his skin, though hardly visible against his own dark surface. He had affected a handlebar moustache and bore scars unknown to me, but this was surely our culprit.
Even after the man was cuffed and revived and I had served the papers, he was no more cooperative than a mad fox, snarling curses at us and kicking till I decided to hobble him as I would a headstrong colt. When he spat my name and called me a pussle-gutted son of Nick, I had heard enough and swatted him out again. All along Sam Watts held his weapon trained on the rest of the family, taunting them as they reined still enough to satisfy any portrait photographer. Dari was so flinchy-eyed I felt certain he was scouting for some edged tool to make an unwise demonstration, so I judged it best to cuff him as well.
The Best American Mystery Stories 2006 Page 38
